


A Gardener's Lot

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-18
Updated: 2002-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo and Sam share a moment while resting in Henneth Annun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gardener's Lot

"Sam?" Frodo's voice is very soft, and if Sam were asleep he might not have heard it. "Are you awake?"

"Mmph," Sam grunts, then, freeing his mouth from the pillow, "yes."

There's a pause. "Oh," Frodo says quietly, and Sam lifts his head to look at him blearily. Frodo's face is roughly drawn by the firelight that flickers under the crude curtain, partitioning them from the rest of the cave. His hand plays absently with the rough weave of the blanket, alternatively plucking at it and stroking.

"How long do you think we have before they rouse us again?" Frodo prompts further, his tone still light and conversational, and Sam struggles out of his blankets, stumbling thickly across the short gap between their beds before falling into Frodo's arms.

"Hmm…" sighs Frodo softly after a warm silence. "That's better." Sam's arm is curled heavily around his chest, Sam's face buried sleepily in the crook of his neck. He half-closes his eyes, sinking back into the pillows again, lifting his hand lazily to, bury fingers in Sam's hair. It catches glints of gold from the sparse firelight, appearing to glimmer blurrily from under Frodo's lowered lashes.

"I'm glad Faramir found us," Frodo whispers, his breathe hot and tickling on Sam's scalp as he leans down to kiss the hair his fingers comb through. "But I wish we hadn't had that bother with Gollum."

"Mmph," Sam grunts again, this time muffled by the warmth where Frodo's neck joins shoulder. He tilts his head a little, and his voice is warm and wet on Frodo's jawline. "And I no less, but at least we've got him out of the way . . . At least we know where he *is* now, if you follow me." He ensures that Frodo does indeed follow him -- sliding a hand down to stroke Frodo's hip.

"I do," Frodo murmurs, and sighs again as Sam presses his closed lips to the Frodo's neck, jaw, chin, mouth . . . Long, slow sensations of warmth and the dampness of his breath, then the taste of wine as Frodo opens his mouth wide. Sam props himself up on his elbow, beginning a leisurely exploration with his tongue.

"How long . . ." Frodo gasps as Sam pulls back a little, placing a brief farewell on Frodo's chin before shifting to slide his hands up under Frodo's shirt, chuckling softly as Frodo breath catches and he writhes, the roughness of Sam's hands stroking his sides.

"*Oh* . . ." Frodo breathes as Sam's hands clasp either side of his chest, thumbs making slow circles over his nipples. "How long . . ." Frodo groans again, the words vibrating against Sam's smile on the column of his throat. "How long do you think we . . . we have?"

"Long enough," Sam says into his mouth, and Frodo laughs breathlessly.

"Nonetheless . . ." he murmurs, reaching behind Sam to pull the blanket up over both of them.

The air under the blanket is rich and warm and they revel in the scent of eachother after what seems like weeks without bathing. The low background murmur of the men's voices on the other side of the curtain is as unfamiliar yet comforting as the earthy herbal scent of the bedding they are immersed in.

"Long enough for this?" Frodo breathes - perhaps emboldened by their hidden status, he wraps his legs around Sam's hips.

Sam groans softly. "I . . . think . . . Yes please, Sir." Frodo laughs, stroking Sam's face with his fingertips as Sam shivers and presses down.

"So polite, Master Samwise," Frodo murmurs, gently kissing the corner of Sam's trembling mouth. "Your Gaffer would be proud of you."

"*Mmm*, Sam responds somewhat absently, sliding his hands further around Frodo's back and pulling him closer. "If only he were here now."

They both pause for a moment, then burst into laughter; the constant low rumble of voices from outside their alcove falls silent for a instant, then resumes on a slightly higher note as Sam presses urgent kisses to Frodo's laughing mouth. "*Shh*," he hushes, though his own body still shakes with silent mirth. "Quiet there, you!"

"But . . ." Frodo finally sighs, his tone still playful. "I doubt your Gaffer would approve of *this*. . ." He pushes up, pressing his chest to Sam's chest, his hips to Sam's hips, his mouth to Sam's mouth and effectively silencing them both.

Their movements are slow and heavy, relaxed and assured in their understanding of eachother. Little of their clothing is removed - Frodo's shirt hitched up under his shoulders as Sam's hands stroke his back; and the buttons of Sam's collar are opened to give Frodo access to the skin -- tasting of sunlight -- underneath.

Eventually they sink into stillness again, and Frodo pushes back the blanket sluggishly to pant in the cool cave-air, his breath little exclamations of steam. His legs slip from around Sam, knees still raised, and Sam settles effortlessly between them. Sam's hair is ruffled and unruly as the blanket slips down to his shoulders, and he lowers his head to Frodo's chest with a sigh.

"You might be surprised, Mr Frodo," Sam says lightly - voice is still thick - once he has regained his breath. "About my Gaffer, I mean."

Frodo smiles langorously, threading his fingers once more into Sam's curls. "Oh yes? How so?"

"Well --" Sam shifts a little, turning his head to press his lips on Frodo's chest, over his heart. "It's a Gamgee's job to look after a Baggins, my old Dad always said." There is more than a hint of pride in his tone. His voice deepens gruffly into an imitation of his father's: "Most especially if that Baggins is a resident of Bag End!"

Frodo chuckles softly. "I hardly think he was envisioning *this* when he told you that, Sam," he murmurs, and the double meaning of the words is not lost on Sam as his Master tightens his arms about him briefly, a note of sadness -- or maybe regret? - slipping into his voice. "And who looks after a Gamgee?"

Sam doesn't reply for a while, but the soft brush of his eyelashes against Frodo's chest as he blinks lets Frodo know he is still awake, deep in thought.

"Why, I think--" Sam pauses again, briefly, then starts over. "I think Gamgees look after themselves, in a way. Like gardens do. Plants. Though yes --" He continues on hurriedly, as if anticipating Frodo's rebuttal of this. "You may say that this ain't true, especially with me as a gardener and all, but gardeners are only there to ensure that plants get what they need." Frodo can feel Sam's frown of frustration against his chest, and he continues to comb his fingers gently through Sam's hair, remaining silent. "I can't rightly explain it like you could, Sir, see I'm used to doing all me talking with me hands, and not with words like you can." He sighs. "You see -- plants and trees and flowers and the like all have what they need to survive -- the land takes care of them and they take care of it, if you follow me. They *are* the land. And the land is them. The gardener just makes sure they're in the right place for it, as it were."

"And what *do* the plants need to survive?" Frodo murmurs, almost a whisper, and his hands slip down to rest on broad shoulders as Sam props himself up on his elbows again, staring down into Frodo's eyes, his expression unreadable.

"Earth," he says firmly, running his hands over Frodo's skin, cradling his ribs. "Water." He cups Frodo's cheek in his palm, running a thumb feather light across Frodo's eyelashes before dropping to his his eyelid. "And sunlight." His fingertips rest lightly on Frodo's lips, and when they curve upward softly he presses his own lips to them tenderly, chastely.

There is a sudden sound, emerging from the rumble of outside voices -- someone clearing his throat, and a shadow against the curtain.

"Yes?" Frodo inquires in a clear voice, not breaking eye contact with Sam, who's face still hovers scarce inches from his own.

"I have water for bathing, sir, and Captain Faramir will be breaking his fast in several minutes."

Frodo lowers his knees and Sam slips off the bed, re-buttoning his collar and pulling up the blankets on his own - abandoned - cot. Frodo sits up and brushes down his own clothing before calling you, "All right . . . Thankyou."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/1520.html


End file.
